


Collected

by euphorbic



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Canon Jewish Character, Cat Erik, Childish Humor, Gun Kink, M/M, Miscommunication, Past Tense, Present Tense, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-09 00:30:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphorbic/pseuds/euphorbic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another collection of short fics archived from Tumblr.</p><p>First up: Charles makes a linguistic <i>faux pas</i> during an international recruitment trip.<br/>Second: Erik shares his gun kink with Charles.<br/>Third: Erik is an alley cat with mutant powers. Charles is a human with pathetic pigeon-killing skills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gun Kink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik shares his gun kink with Charles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was spurred by a commentary about guns between [alittlebitontuesdays](http://alittlebitontuesdays.tumblr.com/) and [Synekdokee](http://synekdokee.tumblr.com/) which has since been lost to the ether.

“Erik,” Charles said, perplexed by the weight of all fifty calibers the huge handgun boasted. “If I didn’t have firsthand experience otherwise, I would say you suffer from size issues.”

A puff of breath against Charles’ ear communicated Erik’s amusement, the following breathy growl, though, communicated long distance through the live wire of Charles’ body, straight to his groin. “It is one of the largest caliber handguns in existence, true: a product of Israel’s military ingenuity, but not exactly a useful one.”

Charles laughed quietly at the statement, but smiled privately at the feel of Erik’s body pressed to his, the rub of their clothes, and sharing of body heat as Erik’s chest molded to Charles’ back and his hands eased along Charles' forearms to the back of his hands.

Pressing his tongue to his lips to wet them, Charles raised the gun to the pumpkin that had half-rotted before the children could carve it into a jack-o-lantern. The gun was heavy. A huge triangular weight ran the length of the barrel just to help absorb the purportedly harsh kick. 

“You can touch my mind,” Erik murmured against Charles’ ear, “and feel how it works. You can use my power to penetrate it, if you like.”

Charles bit his lip; he picked up on the deliberateness in the choice of ‘penetrate’ and pressed his ass back just enough to put pressure on Erik’s cock.  _Why don’t we put the gun down and just go fuck?_

Erik was adamant.  _After, Charles._  His warm palms and cold fingers gripped over Charles’ fingerless gloves. “Slowly press the trigger, Charles. I’ll hold you steady.”

Taking a deep breath, Charles nodded and concentrated on the gun. Feeding on Erik’s steadiness, he looked down the sight at the unfortunate pumpkin and the stump behind it. He pressed yielding flesh against the steel trigger. He pressed a little harder before his flesh no longer yielded and the trigger slowly gave way.

The hammer clicked, the bullet was struck, the pumpkin exploded, and the resulting fury of sound and recoil slammed down Charles’ hands and wrists, throwing him hard against Erik’s solid chest. Only Erik’s hands on the back of his kept the ferocious recoiled from slamming the gun back into his face. 

Heart hammering behind his ribs, Charles thumbed the safety and twisted around in Erik’s arms. “You ass! My wrists! I almost got hit in the face!”

His outraged expression was met with Erik’s terrifyingly shark-like grin. It coiled heat in Charles’ stomach where it terrified most others. Charles’ anger melted away and his adrenaline fed into a new outlet: lust. His cock began to tingle with teasing sensation as his blood pumped faster.

Erik took the gun with one hand and pressed Charles’ body flush with his. With the Desert Eagle in Erik’s hand, there was no doubt at all what was pushing insistently against Charles’ hip. “Now we fuck.”

 


	2. Gun Kink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is set after Cuba and assumes Charles and Erik resolved their differences. File under: childish fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Roz, who requested something to do with international travel.

_international incident_

Normally, Erik doesn’t sleep late; he likes to get up early and attack his daily run between 4:30 and 6am. And because Erik runs, rarely jogs, he has a habit (which many of the residents of Charles’ school refer to as insane) of challenging himself to see how much ground he can cover in an hour and half.

However, nearly noon on Friday comes and Erik is still asleep, his body heating up Charles’ bed, though Charles is not there to enjoy the benefit. It is not the sun, nor the morning chorus of birds, nor even students running up and down the halls that wakes Erik. Rather it is the shrieking of the phone sharing one of the superfluous pillows on the bed.

“ _Scheisse_ ,” Erik hisses.

The phone begins to ring again, but Erik arrests the bell and clappers within the clumsy device with the barest expenditure of his power. Sheet and comforter retreat from his arm and upper chest as he reaches up and picks up the handset without looking.

“What?” He doesn’t sound happy; likely because he isn’t. 

The voice that answers is female and for the one instant he thinks it is McTaggert, Erik nearly rips all the metal out of the device. “International collect call from Charles Xavier, will you accept the charges?”

Definitely not McTaggert. Erik’s heart rate steadies, red clears from the edges of his vision. “Yes.” As he waits for the connection, Erik reaches out habitually for the familiar metal of Charles’ gold fillings and then his wheelchair. They are, of course, not there. He frowns and draws his magnetic sense back as if burned. Charles has been gone three days now.

There’s barely a pause and then he hears Charles. “Hello, Erik?”

Erik takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Charles, didn’t I just talk to you?”

“About five hours ago, my friend. I’m very sorry, but I may be a bit drunk.” Charles, to his credit, doesn’t sound drunk, though Erik picks up on small tells. For one, it sounds like the handset he’s using is pressed right against that sensual mouth of his. Erik snarls silently; he can think of better things to press there.

“I hung up four hours ago,” Erik replies tersely. “You called me at one in the morning. Do the math Charles.”

“Oh, right, maybe this can wait.” Charles’ voice drops in pitch as he becomes more serious. 

“If its about the mutant, I want to hear it.” Erik sits up, his attention now firmly on Charles’ voice. He wonders briefly where he is, concludes he’s likely at the hotel’s front desk.

“Yes and no,” Charles hedges.

Erik uses what metal is in the handset to keep it to his ear so he can draw his legs up and drape his forearms across the peak they create. 

“Long story short,” Charles sighs, his breath seeming to contribute to the low buzz of static along the connection, “he’s not interested. Or, perhaps I should say his uncle isn’t interested. It’s too bad, because his mutation is amazing and, perhaps, a bit ironic. He can produce radiant energy. His mother was in Hiroshima when the bomb was dropped.”

Erik’s lips thin. “His uncle controls him?”

“Well…” Charles’ pause is long and telling.

“Charles, just tell me what happened so I can go back to sleep.”

Charles sighs again. “Everything was going swimmingly. Mr. Yoshida was interested and everyone was having such a good time.”

Erik says, “But?”

“But then,” Charles continues, and he’s talking fast. Erik can sense the blood rushing to Charles’ face even from across the great divide. “Then I gave a toast and everything went straight to hell…! I didn’t know. I don’t speak the bloody language! Everyone else thought it was funny, but Yoshida the senior is an ass and was offended.”

“Then clearly,” Erik snorted, “we’re better off without Shiro Yoshida and his uncle. What did you say, anyway?”

“I suppose you’re right, but I came so far. I wish the stop over in Hawaii had been longer.”

Erik hears the melancholy flavor in Charles’ voice, but he’s never been good at knowing how to cheer people up. He’s good at dry humor and sarcasm, not cheer-leading  so he says nothing in reply; just waits for Charles to say more.

“Anyway, apparently toasting ‘chin-chin’ in Japan is something one doesn’t do,” Charles finally continues.

“How so? What does it mean?” Erik leans forward more, his arms slide forward across his knees and his torso presses to his thighs.  

“Chin means  _penis_ , Erik. I toasted penis-penis to a seventeen-year old boy and his uncle.”

It is possible the huge house shakes with the reverberations of Erik’s sudden laughter. It is the kind of laughter only Charles can inspire; honestly felt and pulled straight from his gut. Charles tries to tell him it isn’t funny, but Erik continues to laugh until his control over the phone handset slips and it drops to the bed.

Wiping moisture from his eyes, Erik takes the phone in his right hand again and presses it back to the side of his head. 

“Are you quite finished now,” Charles asks. He doesn’t sound happy.

“Ah, Charles,” Erik chuckles, “I’m sure you’ll survive. Just… take it on the chin.”

A surprised snort resounds across the receiver a continent and an ocean away. “What?”

“Don’t rub your chin when you think about this.”

“Are you really—?”

“Chin up, Charles.”

“Erik!” But now Charles is choking with halting laughter. “Continue with this and when I get home I’ll punch you in the chin.”

“No, you won’t.” Erik is now smug. He looks to the windows and the sunlight streaming through the bedroom. “You like my chin.”

Charles’ voice goes soft, drawing a different kind of smile onto Erik’s lips; the kind of private smile he thought was once lost to him. “Yes, Erik. In fact, I do.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know when chin began to be used as slang for penis, so this might be anachronistic. It is, however, in current usage.


	3. alley cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blame this on Mixture. 
> 
> Erik is an alley cat with mutant powers. Charles is the human that smells of vanilla and bergamot and has no ability to kill pigeons.

_Alley Cat_

Erik sidled down the alley, sticking close to the wall. The scents were far more colorful than the sights as far as he was concerned. It was an annoyance, but one that had to be borne in order to find the area he wanted to revisit.

Keeping his sense of metal just as open as his flaring nostrils, he prowled along the trash-strewn street, resisting all urges to pounce on windswept newspaper. There would be time for honing his martial skills later. 

When he felt the rusting iron of the fire escape, Erik opened his mouth and swiped his tongue over his black nose: he found a moist nose always helped his sense of smell. Soon after he detected the scent of burnt bread, the vanilla-esque scent he associated with old books, and a citrus scent he’d once heard called ‘bergamot’.

Erik crouched beneath the fire escape. He tensed, aligned his tail to account for wind, and tamped his rear feet for the best possible grip and thrust. His muscles coiled tight and then he leaped up, flinging himself into the air, right for the fire escape.

None of the inferior alley-dwellers would have a hope at gaining the iron platform, but Erik was different. He called the platform to him and even if the huge thing was too much to move too soon, that was okay, because it just meant he pulled himself to  _it_.

All the same, he almost didn’t make it. He had to scrabble, sending rust and peeling paint flying, getting debris in his claws. With a counter-balancing flail of tail, he gained the platform. From there it was easy. 

Erik pelted up the metal stairs, following vanilla and bergamot scents that led him to a window far up the building. The light was on in the kitchen, making Erik squint his greenish eyes against the sudden brightness. It was worth the discomfort; the human was there. 

"Hey, you owe me," Erik said to him. "I killed those pigeons that keep roosting on your window. I left them for you. So. I feel like having fish."

The human backed away from his icebox and glanced at the screen between them. “Oh, if it isn't the brindle cat again. Did you leave those pigeons for me? You beastly thing, you.”

"Yes," Erik yawned, then licked flat a tuft of displaced fur on his shoulder. "I did. Now, how about the fish? Or cream cheese from your burned bread?"

"Are you hungry? I was just contemplating another attempt at toast." The human came to the window and fiddled with the screen. He didn't seem to have the knack for the mechanism, so Erik focused a little pressure on it until it slid up. He had no idea why the human gasped when the screen snapped up just high enough to let Erik through. The open screen was a clear invitation even if he had opened it for the helpless human. He slithered happily underneath. He jumped down to the floor, glided along the tiles, then jumped back up onto the bench where he found the burned toast and a small block of soft butter. 

It wasn't cream cheese, but the butter didn’t seem like a bad idea. Erik crouched down and started licking. 

"How extraordinary," the human said, reaching down to stroke Erik's lean, muscled body. "Could the X-Gene express itself among animals as well?"

Erik allowed the blunt-clawed human the rare liberty of touching him while he lapped at the rich butter. After all, it could be nice to partner with the human; he was excellent at killing pests and the human had a steady shelter and supply of food.


End file.
